Sleepwalking
by RationalParanoia
Summary: No one openly discussed the strange happenings of the world around them. It was completely normal to be off the streets by 10am. It was expected that one morning you might find a bleeding, thumping heart on your windowsill. You just never spoke about it, or Them. But Petra? Well, she went looking for it.


**Sleepwalking** – a LevixPetra fanfiction  
Disclaimer: I do not own Shingeki no Kyojin or any of its characters/themes!  
Please see end for notes :)

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Chapter 1: Remembrance of Stupidity Passed

Petra could clearly remember the first time she had run into one of the soulless. She'd been fourteen years old and carefree, with a wicked and vicious rebellious streak which had manifested into, when she looked back on it, incredibly stupid activities. She'd danced through the streets of her home town at midnight – a pretty little thing in summer dresses and petite sandals; neck on display like a neon sign on the Vegas strip. In retrospect, she'd been grieving the loss of her mother and hadn't really known how to deal with it. But destructive behaviour was destructive behaviour, and there was no sugar-coating the fact that she'd been a right little shit.

The attack had occurred during one of her many nightly outings during a humid summer evening. The air had been hot and stagnant, the ghost of a breeze filtering through the large oak trees that dotted the two storey white brick house that Petra and her father called home. After finishing her dinner at a silent table she'd pecked her father on the forehead, murmuring a gentle goodnight, and tottered upstairs to her room. It was a nice room, one any girl her age would have adored. The walls were covered in pastel yellow wallpaper, the floor made of varnished oak that chilled Petra's bare feet terribly in winter. A single bed with a fluffy blue doona sat in the corner; vibrantly coloured pillows and cushions cascaded down and around it like an explosion of tropical fish, whilst a lone window complete with rickety latch hovered just above. A bedside table covered in stickers held a plain white lamp and a diary, a little alarm clock ticking softly away. A wardrobe and desk stood at the opposite end of the room by the door. Books tumbled off the desk and clothes spewed from the wardrobe like a waterfall. A few stray stuffed animals huddled quietly in the mess.

Petra had flopped down onto her bed after changing into her pyjamas, a puff of air leaving her cherry lips. She glanced at the clock on her table. The big hand was slowly creeping towards the twelve, and the little hand was perched on the nine. She had another hour or so before her father trudged his weary bones up to his own room and passed out in his lonely bed, and another half hour before he fell into that deep state of sleep that only a banshee could wake him from. Petra would have to occupy herself with her many books until then. She rose from her bed with a dreary sigh and padded over to her desk. She picked up the first book she found there, cover hidden from view by various papers and little crayon and paint sketches. She returned to her bed and flipped the book over so she could read the title: _Dracula_.

It was a known fact that folklore, fairytales and monster stories were not just fantastical works of fiction. Truth, no matter how deep, was always buried within the pages. It was just a matter of discerning what was real to what was a load of late nights with too much whiskey and a side of acid. Of course there was no such thing as a troll asking for safe passage fees near the local town bridge. The murky shapes in the water underneath the bridge, on the other hand, would do more than just rob you of your pocket money and valuables.

The Governments of each country, whilst not admitting to anything, had issued strict curfews for adolescents and children after a string of gruesome murders and disappearances erupted across the planet. No human under the age of eighteen was allowed to be on the street after 10pm unless accompanied by a parent or guardian. Adults were permitted to be out as long as they wished, though it was highly recommended that everyone be inside their place of residence after 12am. Though no one openly discussed why this was so, everyone knew that it was for humanities utmost safety. Dark things stalked the night: they tapped lovingly on glass, whispered sweet words beneath the cracks of doorways, crawled across rooftops, left little gifts like beating hearts on windowsills.

It was this curfew, coupled with the mystery of her mother's death, which had ignited Petra's nightly walks throughout the silent streets of her home town. Her father had never been the same since his wife's passing, and had fallen into a pit of melancholy that he only half heartedly tried to climb out of. He made an effort for Petra, but it wasn't really enough. In her mind, she was fully aware that these little escapades were simply a cry for attention. Perhaps if she was injured it would bring some of that light back into her father's eyes – make him realise that Petra was still living and breathing and there for him. For the moment, he had not noticed any change in his daughter's behaviour, and that had stung harder than any physical blow could have.

As Petra flipped through the musty pages of her book, she heard the telltale creak of the bottom stair as her father began to ascend to his room. A moment later and there was a gentle knock on her door before it was pushed open. Her father smiled tiredly at her, hand still resting on the brass doorknob.

"I'm off to bed know, Pet," he said. Petra's cheeks coloured lightly at the nickname, and she smiled despite herself. "Don't stay up too late."

"I won't. Just doing a bit of reading," she lied easily. "Night, Dad."

"Night, Petra." The door closed with a soft click, muffled footsteps retreated further up the hallway, and Petra was left alone in her room once more with only her books, cushions and stuffed toys for companionship. She flicked her fingers across the blue sea of her doona, nails itching across the fabric and carving soft fissures and imprints across its surface. This was always the worst part of sneaking out; the nerve pinching waiting game. She tried to relax, willing her muscles to curve into the mattress and rest. She hated how jittery she felt.

Half an hour later and the house echoed with the ruffled snores of a heavily sleeping, exhausted man. Petra waited a fraction longer before she swung her legs over the side of her bed. She tiptoed across her messy floor, mindful of stubbing her toes on the edges of her numerous books. He wardrobe door creaked when she opened it but she payed it no mind as she rummaged through her shoes, searching for her boots. After a fruitless search she spotted them in the corner of her room, hidden behind a pink rabbit. She located socks and was quick to pull them on followed by the boots, marvelling at the brilliant neon green colour. She stuffed her arms through a white t-shirt and pulled on some denim shorts. She surveyed herself quickly in her tiny mirror: pale skin with a dusting of freckles, chestnut orange hair, and bright hazel eyes twinged with sadness.

Petra scowled at her reflection, watching the image copy her. She tore her eyes away from it and strode over to her bed, reaching for her window. She fumbled with the latch for a moment before she eased it open. She took one last look about her room, ears straining for any suspicious noise. Her father's snores reached her and she sighed. She clambered out the window and closed it gently, making sure the latch didn't lock behind her. The warm summer air curled around her, dancing across her skin, as she made her way towards the grape vine trellis that ran beside her window. She descended quickly and silently, months of practice making the short journey to the ground easy. She glanced up at her window before she took off running down the driveway.

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The streets were utterly desolate; an urban graveyard of sculpted brick bones and rotting petrol and smoke plumes. Homes, stores and offices were weary skulls lining the long dried veins of the road. The only lights were the flickering poles spaced every fifty metres or so along the pavement. Nobody was awake at this hour, and if they were, they had turned their lights off and were sheltering in the dark. Petra skittered happily along the sidewalk, alone and pleased, dancing to a tune only she could hear; her own heartbeat. The steady thumpity thump rhythm as blood coursed through her veins was a treat to listen to. She preferred it over the trashy pop musicians and rap artists that clogged the music charts with their generic sound and pitiful lyrics.

Petra revelled in the absolute solitude. There was no one around. There was no one to judge her, no one to pity her, and no one wishing to talk to her. She loved this precious time that she had to herself. She loved the thrill she got whenever she saw something in the shadows move. She loved the prickling sensation she felt on her skin as her senses went into overdrive. She loved the paranoia that settled at the base of her throat, threatening to bubble up and out of her mouth in a panicked scream. The night was both a friend and a terrible enemy, and she relished it. All about were signs of decay, of death: the dying roses in the Caroline home's front garden, the blackbird carcass tingling with ants, the memorial of the young man who had died in a car accident last week. She even spotted a bloodied hand beside a dumpster...

Petra paused, a ripple of morbid curiosity and fear running down her spine. Against her better judgement, she took a steady step forwards. The dumpster was halfway down the alley that ran behind the general store. It was well lit, yet it cast shadows darker than any night sky. The hand was just _lying_ there. She glanced quickly about, searching for the possible owner of the hand, as ridiculous as it sounded. She took a few more steps into the alley, every fibre telling her to turn around and bolt.

"_Help." _A voice, choked with light sobs. _"Please, help me. Someone, please,"_ the voice continued. The hairs on Petra's nape sprang to life at the sound, stinging her skin. She didn't like this one bit. This was something you saw in horror films. The plucky, kind girl goes to help the disembodied voice, then BAM! She winds up with half a face and choked to death with her own intestines. Not going to happen. She slowly backed up, eyes trained on the dumpster and the shadows around it. This had been a stupid idea. This was the last time she was going to mess about like this. She was going home and going to bed. She was going to forget all about this. Her back hit a solid, warm object.

_Shit._

"Oho, what do we have here?" a smoky male voice asked.

"I dunno. Looks like a lost kitten," another male said, wheezier and callous. "You can come out of there now, Will," he added. A scuffling noise rang from behind the dumpster, and then a reedy young man with curly blond hair stood up, brushing dirt from his jeans. In his left hand he held a studio prop – a bloodied hand.

"Oh. Hey, she's really pretty," Will said, spotting Petra. She sneered at him hatefully, taking a quick few steps so she wasn't leaning against smoky guy.

"Really funny," she spat at them. "Playing a trick like that is wrong. I was really worried someone was hurt." The men, all young and barely out of their teens, looked at her stupidly.

"Um, that's kind of the point," Smoky said. He was heavy set with nasty little eyes and the beginnings of a scraggly moustache. The other two laughed. They all stank of cheap booze and cigarettes.

"Well you've had your fun. I'm going home," she snapped. She stalked haughtily past them, only for Smoky to yank her arm painfully backwards.

"Aw, but we were just getting started," he whined. Petra whirled on him, cracking him across the face with the back of her hand. Smoky let her go with a sharp cry.

"Don't touch me!" she hissed, hand stinging from the impact. The playful teasing mood that had enveloped the alley suddenly dissipated. Smoky reached up and touched the side of his smarting cheek, a furious flare lighting the back of his eyes. His lip curled into a vicious sneer.

"Oh, you'll pay for that, girly," Wheezy snickered. Petra shot him a filthy look, silencing him instantly. Coward.

"Yeah. Benny's right about that," Smoky growled. His fist suddenly crashed into Petra's lip, knocking her backwards. She stumbled, landing in a heap, tasting rust and salt on her tongue and teeth. Her head smacked painfully into the brick wall, dazing her, and she blinked blearily up at Smoky as he raised his fist again. She barely managed to dodge it, knuckles grazing her chin, as the man's fist cracked into the bricks. He let out a howl of pain, shaking his hand and breathing harshly through his nostrils. He kicked at her, steel capped boots slamming into Petra's stomach. She choked, air wheezing out of her lungs in a rush. She hacked and coughed, nearly vomiting, as she struggled to get oxygen back in her body.

"Stupid bitch," Benny, the wheezy one, chuckled. It was then that a clattering can decided to suddenly and violently shoot across the alley, cracking Will over the head. He toppled over with a yelp, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead. The three men paused. Petra held her breath. When nothing further happened, the trio relaxed. "Just the wind," Benny said, and then abruptly stopped. His eyes flickered down towards the darkest part of the alley, face contorted in concentration. His friends copied, listening for something.

"_... mice. Three blind mice... see how they run, oh see how they run... you tried to take a little girl's life, so I'll carve out your hearts with rusty knives. I pity your pathetic, miserable lives, you three blind mice..."_ A voice unlike anything Petra had never heard before seeped across the alley, drenching everything in absolute terror. The macabre nursery rhyme came again, closer this time, though it didn't seem to have a source. It echoed like gossamer sheets in a winter breeze, soft and chilling. Petra wanted to get out of the alley. Right. Now. She chanced a painful glance at her attackers. They were busy looking for the voice, spinning in circles and snapping at each other. She got to her feet, knees quaking, and then bolted. The men heard her moving and they charged after her, heavy feet pounding like boulders against the concrete. A sudden shriek pierced the night, shocking Petra's brain into a stupor, and then a force careened into her, knocking her back to the ground.

And then the screaming started.

Petra's ears rang with gut wrenching agony as the men were ripped to pieces by an invisible attacker. She forced herself up, letting out a squeak of fright when something warm and wet splashed the back of her t-shirt and legs. The slick splatter of blood and innards hitting the pavement and brick walls sent her stomach reeling. She turned her head, keeling over as she emptied her dinner over her boots and the concrete, retching loudly and heavily. Tears dribbled down her cheeks, and she hurriedly wiped her mouth and chin with the back of her hand, shaking horribly. A sob escaped her wrecked throat, followed by another, and soon she was crying ugly fat tears, her nose running. She was next. When the monster was finished with the men it was going to come for her. She tumbled forwards, ribs aching. The men had stopped screaming, and now there was only the sharp cracking of bones splintering into pieces.

She'd nearly reached the edge of the alley when cold, slippery hands curled around the tops of her arms. Petra let out a pitiful wail as she was tugged gently back into the alley, wet fingers rubbing soothing circles into her skin. She squirmed but didn't resist when she was pushed against the bricks, the fight wrestled from her.

"Look at me," her would-be killer demanded. She refused, clenching her eyes tight, eyelashes tickling her cheeks. The hands around her arms tightened, no doubt leaving bruises. She whined, flinching. "Open your eyes, Petra Ral." That did it. Petra's eyes snapped open. Eyes of the palest silver shone eerily in the murky shadows. The face was young and bloody, inky hair a tousled mess, skin stained with murder, mouth full of ragged fangs. Petra choked on a scream. "Hush, child," the demon ordered. "Quit your snivelling and get a hold of yourself... fucks sake, this place is a mess," it continued, a distasteful sneer entering its voice. Petra hiccupped, unable to look at it for longer than a second. Red. So much red. She could smell it, taste it, feel it. She wanted to go home and scrub herself until her skin was pink and raw, consequences be damned. "What the hell were you doing out at this time of night anyway? Are you an idiot or something?" Petra merely shook her head, still sniffling. "Figures that I get the mute one," it snapped tersely. Its silver eyes flickered over her form for a moment, studying her intently. And then it was right up in her face, a mere centimetre away. "There are nasty things crawling around in the dark, girl," it cooed softly, soft breath caressing her neck. She whimpered tearfully as a hot tongue slid across her throat, pressing playfully down on the hummingbird beat of her pulse. "A pretty thing like you isn't safe on these streets. Best head back to your barn, little lamb, lest someone worse than me finds you."

She fainted.

And woke up in her bed. Hazel eyes snapped about her room. It took her brain several seconds to register with her eyes that she was no longer in the alley. There were no bodies. There was no blood. There was no demon. She did a quick tally of her room: wardrobe, desk, table, lamp, diary, alarm clock, books everywhere. Everything was in its place, undisturbed. She raised a rickety hand to her forehead, breathing heavily. It had all been a dream, she realised. There was a soft tap on her window, followed by a gentle scrape of nails running across glass. A sick lump formed in her stomach. Petra turned her head stiffly, suddenly terrified to investigate the source of the noise. She looked anyway. Sitting on the other side of the glass was a black, shadowy shape, humanoid in appearance. Two silvery eyes bore down on her whilst a feral grin full of wicked, bloody teeth snaked across the creature's face. She blinked in shock, eyes closing for a fraction of a second, mouth trembling. When she looked again, the shape was gone. She sat up, nerves pinging wildly beneath her skin, hand groping blindly for her bedside lamp. Yellow light seared across the walls of her room, illuminating her windowsill. Perched on the flaking white wood, blood dribbling down the roof tiles, was a beating human heart.

Petra screamed.

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**HELLO, RIVETRA SHIPPERS!** I promised Ana (Amvonz/PensiveBanana on Tumblr) that I would write a Vampire AU for Rivetra. So being the nice insomniac I am, I went ahead and pumped out the first chapter of _Sleepwalking_ for you guys.

As a heads up, _While All The Vultures Feed _is my main priority, so updates for _Sleepwalking_ will be few and far between. Sorry to pop the balloon so soon haha.

I had waaaaaaaaaaay too much fun writing that nursery rhyme. Like, you have no fucking clue how much fun. My mother came into my room to investigate my cackling. In fact, writing this entire chapter was a pure delight. As always, you guys are amazeballs and perfect and I adore all of you. Rational, out!

**Written to:**  
_Sleepwalking_ – Bring Me The Horizon  
_Tiptoe_ – Imagine Dragons  
_The Hollow _– A Perfect Circle  
_Bloody Mary_ (Nerve Endings) – Silversun Pickups  
_Stranger In A Strange Land _– 30 Seconds To Mars


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